


What Hurts The Most

by Lynn_StarDragon



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: All Snipers Have Family Issues, Character Study, Feels, Gen, Regardless of Teams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 22:00:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2204592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynn_StarDragon/pseuds/Lynn_StarDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at the aftermath behind not only the first time dying, but going through a Respawn glitch. One BLU Sniper is dealing with some uncomfortable truths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Hurts The Most

**Author's Note:**

> Doing some drabbles inspired by writing prompts to get back in the habit of working my brain.
> 
> This one is credited to 'amorine' of DA since I saw it on their list first.
> 
> As always, none of my writing would be publishable without Vihtalaini.

Writing Prompt 61: Scar

 

Sniper stared at his bared chest for awhile, not really believing it was there. It had been angry and red at first--too red, too soon, _why had this happened_ \--but without all the blood rushing to his skin it had settled down into something so much smaller and innocuous. It was hardly noticeable now, just a thin white wispy ghost of a mark one couldn't really see unless they were looking for it.

That just made its presence all the more obscene. He'd never run from a fight, never tried to avoid _necessary_ dangers, he wasn't a coward but he had been cocky. Big mistake. Huge, and now he had this little _token_ to remind him.

Others had warned him it was bound to happen, older Snipers hadn't tried to hide the small gashes on their faces. He would have been fine with that, could have blamed it on Respawn going out of sorts and leaving him marred up through no fault of his own so he could look more like the others. Instead he had this and the matching entrance wound just slightly higher up on his back.

Then again... Respawn had gone out of sorts, hadn't it? This was his first time, had been his first death-- _nothing was supposed to happen the first time, Respawn accidents were few and far between_ \--and it wasn't even the kind to write home about.

He was only a week into this gig, coming to terms with the reality that the older Snipers put his skills to shame. In the outside (under)world he'd been one of the best. Too good in fact, which was why he'd ended up in the BLU company where he would outlive his bounty. He was a young buck compared to so many of them but knew that he had room for growth, that he _could_ do wrong and only practice and observation could make him better. The culture shock of life at Teufort had been humbling, in a wildly surreal kind of way. The men were good, the war was ridiculous, he had a paycheck larger than he rightly knew what to do with. Even divvying it up as he was used to from his previous life still left him with excessive coinage for his daily living. In the end he changed the ratios around so that more of the excess was split between emergencies, retirement, investments, 'what-the-fuck-all-just-happened?!' and the lion's share going back to his family.

His family... who probably wouldn't even use half of it if they took a dime from him. They lived off the land, mostly, rarely had to go out of the village for anything the city had to offer. The other men might have survived in the Outback but he'd been born and bred in Never Never Land amidst trees and dust and sun. He'd heard that they all came from varying eclectic backgrounds, not that he was one to pry, but _he_ wasn't a sheep farmer's son. Sniper's family was a clan of hunters through and through, except for the ones lucky enough to have magic humming in their veins. His cousins, mostly. Shamans, the lot of them. His own build lent itself to the lifestyle, but it wasn't meant to be. He was hunter born and even if he didn't kill with his bare hands or teeth he would always be a hunter through and through.

But that was the problem, he was a hunter with a-- _ancestors_ he could hardly look at his chest anymore. For most Australians fighting and bleeding and bruising was a way of life. Being mauled by large cats left you with _trophies_ painted up and down your body. For him? For _his_ family? Oh no....

Scars were lessons etched into the flesh, the physical reminder of a mistake you had made.

It didn't matter what he told them though, he fought at range and there was _no reason_ for anything to get close enough to _touch_ him, let alone **_brand_** him in this way. The double-standard imposed by his father, village big-man, he was a disgrace for lacking muscle and not killing beasts from within arm's reach but by killing from afar he was never allowed the same leeway his brothers and sisters enjoyed when it came to bloody scrapes. They were strapping children, all of them, salt of the earth, and fought so much for food and recreation that it was inevitable they would get dinged up from all the roughhousing.

That's all it ever was, roughhousing. They could get an oozing knee patched up, no need to let a scraped limb scar from an accident. No worries about healing up _accidental_ injuries that had nothing to do with mistakes or oversights or miscalculations. If there was no lesson to be learned then there was no need for a reminder, something his cousins had explained to him when they secretly reset his bones as a little nipper after he played the voice of reason between siblings. Intelligence was rewarded at home just as readily as raw brawn. Though maybe they had been hoping like his parents that he would grow into magic too and were just keeping him alive long enough to come of age.

Fat lot of good that had been, just a huge mistake on everyone's part. He'd known though, felt it way down in his bones, but couldn't bring himself to take that hope away from his mother. After his walkabout she'd still smiled and held him close and called him her special little man, but Sniper knew there had been just the faintest whiff of disappointment. But that had been the only time, and short lived at that. More like, 'oh well, you won't be a doctor but I won't love you any less and there's plenty more you can do in life,' followed by cake. Case closed, issue dropped, he was meant for different things.

Like hunting humans. Being a headhunter was a respectable profession amongst the elders, even earned him back a bit of esteem from most of his family. No longer was he the village outcast, the family disgrace, he was the trapper of men, bounty-hunter of the most dangerous animal on Earth. (Not counting dragons, because... _no_.) He had been well on the way to making a name for himself, hell he _had_ made a name for himself under the assumed identity of 'Bruce Ryan'. Sure it was a bit like calling himself 'John Smith' but that was the bloody point of an alias, not to be traced back to the real him! He was careful like that, thought things through, and now, now?

Now all his hard work was looking mighty flimsy. Sure he had some good habits but not good enough if _this_ managed to happen to him. Worse yet it hadn't been his fault, he hadn't _made_ a mistake he'd made a **choice**! _You weren't punished for making a good **choice**_. Some of the other gunmen liked to pick one spot for the day and be done with it. They would sit and wait and watch and blow away anyone who crossed their scopes. That wasn't his style. Sniper would find a good place, make a shot--two if he was feeling daring--and then get out before some RED came up to stop him. Stick and move, sit and lose, the only way to stay alive was to stay in motion while on the hunt. That's what he had been doing.

For his first week he'd been learning the layout of the battlefield. He tried to study it off the clock but he could only stray within his own base's boundaries. He'd had to learn on the job where the best places to snipe from were. That had left him in a few awkward places to start which he was pretty sure explained why he'd managed to have such good beginner's luck. No one expected him to turn up where he did half the time, not that he didn't pay attention during the strategy meetings but he sometimes got turned around and then he was surprising everyone with a quick kill-assist before ducking back into the shadows to find the spot he was supposed to be shooting from. During that time he'd seen plenty of his own and the other teams. The only mercenary not accounted for was the RED Spook.

At the time it had bothered him, not running into the other professional killer meant he couldn't observe him or his habits. If he couldn't learn his habits he couldn't work out the most efficient way to kill him or counter him. That, in and of itself, was the whole crux of this damn mess.

It hadn't been his fault. There was a damn _sentry_ out there pinning down his teammates and he was the only one who could get a clean angle on it. He took it out, then the RED Engineer who had run out to repair it. Sniper should have left then, he should have holstered his rifle and _run_. He hadn't only because he'd caught sight of the enemy Medic. Wanker had looked around the corner, stuck his head out just enough to be a tempting target and Sniper was all for teamwork and supporting the other BLUs fighting with him. Against his better judgment he'd reloaded, aimed, fired.

The next moment the world went unfocused and everything else went cold. Not numb, _icy chill of tundra wind_ cold before flaring into brilliant pain. In those few seconds several thoughts ran though his head though he wasn't able to fully process them all until much later. He'd been backstabbed. Backstabbing was supposed to be instant and near if not totally painless. This was a terrible lie because everything hurt and he wanted to scream and he wasn't already going through Respawn. The blade had been pointed downward and gone through his heart and was long enough to be sticking out his front. He could feel the weapon against his spine and that made everything so much more tactile and present and _there_.

" _Filthy_ Bushman," echoed in his ears and it sounded French but a wrong kind of French that wasn't how his teammate sounded and then he was gone.

(Accents, he would later recall, varied by region and some of the Spooks faked it to mess with everyone.)

When he came around in Respawn he did scream then, long and loud. Everything had gone from ice to fire and it felt like all of his muscles had locked. Everything hurt, his heart couldn't beat even though he knew, he knew, he _knew_ he was healed and better and it should have been working again. Only everything was constricted pain and it felt like he was having a heart attack, which he might have, who knew, there was a moment of grey in his recollection he couldn't account for so it was possible he very well had died again. He wasn't ashamed to admit that it hurt, or that he was screaming and carrying on, or that he was a wreck because _this was clearly not supposed to be happening since Respawn fixed everything and only left the echo of pain_.

Something had managed to stop the pain though and then everything was back to a blissful black. Next time he woke it was inside the infirmary and well after battle hours.

"I had to sedate you," Medic had calmly explained. The older man proceeded to examine him and elaborated that there had been some kind of glitch in the Respawn system. In short he now had the permanent marks the other men of his career bore from their 'professional rivals', only his weren't on his face.

Looking at it now, in the safety of his van, made a phantom ache flare through his limbs and he had to look away and get his breathing back under control. Wouldn't do to give himself a psychosomatic fit. His heart had been through enough and his lungs felt like someone had taken a cheese grater to them. Honestly he didn't know if he would be able to pull it together for tomorrow's shift. Probably not. He'd try, he had to try. They would probably do better to call in one of the other Snipers while he was on the mend. He would be rubbish, he felt useless like this. Not scared to walk out onto the field but like his arms and legs were being jabbed all over by pins and needles and if he thought too much everything hurt and if he thought too little he _remembered_ and then his throat closed up and breathing became an issue so really that wasn't much of an option either.

He turned the hand-mirror over, glass down on the tiny table in his camper. Bed. Bed sounded like a wonderful idea. Moving made everything hurt and pulled at his skin but that was probably just all in his head anyway. He sunk down onto his familiar mattress. He was safe here. Doors had been triple locked like the windows. No one was going to be getting in while he slept.

If he slept. He probably should sleep. It was safe here and tomorrow promised to be rotten. He'd need to keep his strength up. Couldn't let the team down, not again. He'd missed the rest of the day from being sedated, bloody useless he'd been.

(It didn't matter that the team had been able to push through because of him, they had lost time wrestling him into compliance.)

Really, he wasn't looking forward to tomorrow, or the next day, or the next or any of the days after that. Every day was another opportunity for his parents to call and then he'd have to say something because his mother would _know_. He couldn't lie to her. He could easily lie to his father but the bastard would know as soon as she did that something was wrong with him, and then he'd just be proving his old man right about being a hopeless mutant freak who couldn't contribute to society in any meaningful way.

Maybe if he said nothing she just wouldn't ask. If she didn't ask he wouldn't have to answer. It was a shoddy plan at best but it was all he had for the moment. Sad to say a moment was likely all he would have. If the calender was reading right it was only a matter of time before his mother called to wish him well.

With a sigh he flopped backwards onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Had time really gotten away from him like that? Running around the globe for years from odd job to odd job and contracts all in between. When had Winter given way to Spring? He was too young to feel like this, hollowed out and scraped raw.

"Congratulations," Sniper breathed softly to himself, eyes sightlessly gazing ahead, "you almost lived to thirty-four."

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah, I have a BLU!Sniper OC. With a name and backstory and everything....
> 
> And I am a horrible human being. Expect more prompts and drabbles about 'Bruce' while I round him out.
> 
> Reblog here on [tumblr.](http://journalforblu.tumblr.com/post/110521965217/what-hurts-the-most)


End file.
